From Beneath The Thorns
by HuffleClaw-RavenPuff
Summary: When Septima Vector comes to take Harry Potter to get his school things, she sees the horrible reality. Bruises, cuts, burns - the Boy Who Lived has been abused all his life. In Diagon Alley, when Harry meets Draco Malfoy, he finds a friend and protector...and a crush? With Slytherin house and some powerful friends at his back, Harry may just make it. Bad!Dumbledore, powerful!Harry


I know, but I promise to update Harry Lovegood soon! It's just that this story kinda kicked me in the face, and I had to write it. It's inspired by I Am Legend...Not by befoulmetalroosa, except, obviously, Harry is a girl, there is **no sexual abuse, **and several other key factors. Apologies if these first few chapters are similar to her's - I'm trying to keep the differences to a minimum.

I'm trying to show all the sides of Harry's personality - his cunning and witty mind paired with his fair and brave soul under a shy and abused exterior, rarely peeking through, but it's hard, so don't hate me if it comes out wrong.

This story has slash pairing - yaoi, yuri, whatever you want to call it. They will probably be explored with the characters before they turn 17, but there will be no overage-underage pairings or exploration. This is AU. There is lots of resorting, so don't yell at me if so-and-so is in the wrong house; they're supposed to be. This will be a bad!Dumbledore fic (I love book!Dumbledore, but I can't seem to not bash him in my stories). Possible others bashed as well, we'll see.

Warnings for **slash** and **child abuse**. I put his measurements in American terms because most on here seem to be America. If you need me to translate them, just ask. I'm using Septima Vector's appearance as she is seen in _The Sorcerer's Stone _movie.

Okay, I think that's all you need to know for now. A link to the photo album for this story can be found on my profile. Enjoy, and review if you like it!

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**CHAPTER ONE: PROFESSOR SINISTRA **

"GET UP, BOY!" yelled a shrill voice, and a loud tapping noise roused a small, dark-haired boy from his sleep. The first thing he was aware of was the pain in his head and left leg, and winced as he remembered the plate he had dropped the previous night.

_I better do extra good today,_ he thought as he sat and pulled on his ratty, too-big clothes and his cracked glasses.

"Yes Aunt Petunia!" Harry said, and heard the woman's heels clip-clop as she walked back to the kitchen.

Shaking off the dizziness that rose as he stood – he couldn't remember the last time he had had more than bread to eat, and his head was hurt too, of course – he stepped out of the now unlocked cupboard and scurried to the kitchen.

"Finish the breakfast and don't burn a thing, hear?" Petunia snarled. "It's Dudley's special day, and I won't have you ruining it."

"Yes, ma'am." Said Harry quietly, getting to work immediately. When the Dursleys went out somewhere, like they did every year for Dudley's birthday, they locked Harry is his cupboard and left him at home alone. Harry didn't really mind this after all these years; it gave him some time to himself, some peace and quiet, and he had a few hours to read the precious few books he had procured over the years, maybe draw some pictures, and just generally relax.

Harry furrowed his brow, focusing hard on breakfast. He was going to make certain to do this right. On Saturday's, Sunday's, and every special occasion, they had a full English breakfast. Well, the Dursleys did. Harry sometimes managed to sneak something other than bread, but not always. Soon, Harry was laying plates on the table: potato cakes, bacon, sausage, black pudding, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, tomato, toast, milk and tea for Aunt Petunia, orange juice for Dudley, coffee for Uncle Vernon, and the condiments: brown sauce for Vernon, ketchup for Dudley, jam for Aunt Petunia.

Right after Harry set down the food, Dudley entered the room. Aunt Petunia squealed, running over to hug and kiss him. Vernon stepped inside just after, and thumped Dudley on the back, booming, "Happy birthday, son!"

The Dursleys gathered around the table, which was difficult as it was half overflowing with Dudley's presents. Harry scraped some eggs, toast, and bacon onto his plate, taking advantage of the Dursley's distractions to manage to wolf down almost a whole serving and drink a glass of milk. He didn't much care for milk, but he knew it was good for him, and with all the broken bones he sustained, he could use extra calcium.

Afterwards, as Harry watched Dudley count his presents, he felt rather sick. His stomach was small from lack of food, and this meal had stretched it to its limits. He sat in the corner and tried to keep still, knowing it would pass soon.

Meanwhile…

"Thirty four, thirty five, thirty six." Dudley finally finished, looking slightly winded. He frowned for a moment, then said, "Wait – last year…last year I had thirty-seven!"

His fat face was beginning to turn red, and Harry knew that his cousin was seconds away from flipping the table…again. He hoped he wouldn't be blamed for it this time.

Aunt Petunia must have sensed the same, because she hurriedly said, "Oh, well, Diddykins, we'll just have to buy you two new presents while we're out, won't we? How's that – you'd have thirty-nine then, sweetums."

Dudley frowned for a moment, then smiled.

"Alright then." He said, and pulled a present into his lap.

Harry shook his head. He didn't understand at all why the quantity of the presents should matter. He had never received a present, but he knew he would be endlessly grateful if he was given something as simple as a pair of new socks, or a jumper that fit him properly, never mind six computer games, a bike, a remote control airplane, and the dozens of other things Dudley would no doubt get.

There was a click and the soft flap of mail falling to the floor.

"Get the mail, boy!" Vernon barked, and Harry jumped up immediately, glad for something to do.

On the mat lay three things. Harry shuffled through them just for kicks. One was a brown envelope that looked like a bill, another was a postcard from Vernon's sister, Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, and the last was a thick yellow envelope with an address written in emerald ink. Harry squinted down at it – his glasses weren't actually his proper prescription – and gasped.

It was addressed to _him_.

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard Under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

Harry stared. He had never _ever_ received a letter in his life. For the first time, Harry felt true happiness. Someone wanted to talk to him! And even if this was just a meaningless stock message about insurance or sweepstakes or something of the sort, it was for _Harry_, and only his.

"What are you doing, boy?" thundered Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "Checking for letter bombs?"

Harry bit his lip, thinking about what Uncle Vernon would say if he saw him with a letter, and quickly stuffed the missive in his too-big pocket and hurried into the kitchen.

"Took you long enough," Vernon grunted as Harry handed him the bill and postcard. He ripped the bill open, snorted, and flipped the postcard over. "Oh, Marge is ill. Ate a funny whelk." He said the Petunia, who tutted sympathetically.

Soon, Dudley's friend Piers Polkiss arrived, and Harry was promptly stuffed into his cupboard, the door was locked, and then he heard the sound of the Dursley's car pulling away.

Harry waited one minute, counting slowly. Then he pulled the string that illuminated the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, and pulled out the letter. With trembling hands, Harry opened it and unfolded the first page.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

For nearly five minutes, Harry stared at the page. There was no possible way this was true, Harry knew that. He knew magic wasn't real. Of course it wasn't.

But then…Harry had seen Dudley's acceptance letter to Smeltings, and it was very similar – minus the wizard-and-witch-speak. And Harry had done strange things in the past, like making objects move without touching them, understanding the snakes in the backyard, and escaping from Dudley and his friends in strange ways. His aunt and uncle had always punished him severely for such things, calling him a freak, but Harry had never believed that he had actually caused them – he thought he was just unlucky.

Until now, at least.

With a frown, Harry noticed another, smaller letter written on the same heavy yellow parchment, but this time in purple ink and a different handwriting. It was on top of what Harry thought in passing was a supply list, and Harry picked it up. It explained that a teacher from the school called Hogwarts would be there to take him to get his school things shortly, and was signed by an Albus Dumbledore.

That was it. That was the part of the letter that convinced Harry it was true.

In a daze, he stood up. The lock on the cupboard unbolted of its own accord, and the door opened. Harry stepped out, the letters and envelope still clutched in his hands.

As if acting on Harry's own movements, the doorbell rang. The boy knew that this would be the teacher the message had spoken of. Slowly, he walked towards the door. He felt like he was in a dream – at least, until his small hand pulled the door open. Suddenly, everything became most real.

The woman standing on the other side of the door was wearing a thick red cape decorated with gold designs, a pointed red hat, black boots, and pear earrings. She had very long thick black hair, a square face, brown eyes, and sparse wrinkles. There were bags under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept in a while, and her lips were nearly as dark as her cloak. Her face looked harsh, perhaps even grave, but when she spotted Harry, she smiled brightly, and her whole face lit up.

"Hello there. You must be Harry Potter."

Harry nodded mutely. He felt as if the weight of all this new information was a physical burden, and was suddenly quite shy.

"My name is Septima Vector. I teach Arithmancy at Hogwarts." Harry simply stared at the woman. He knew he was being rude, but he had no idea what Arithmancy was. Luckily, Septima Vector didn't seem upset; she smiled and explained kindly, "Arithmancy is a class that studies the magical properties of numbers, including the possibility of predicting the future with numbers."

"Oh – it's very nice to meet you." Harry said, finally remembering his manners and holding out his hand. Septima took it, and Harry fought not to flinch and failed. Her eyes widened slightly, but she continued to smile as she said, "May I come in for a moment before we leave?"

"Of course!" Harry said, directing her to the sitting room and almost smirking as he pictured his aunt's face if she saw this be-cloaked woman in her nice parlour.

The woman arranged herself gracefully on the couch and began to speak.

"Well I'm sure you know all about Hogwarts – of course you mustn't feel bad for not knowing about Arithmancy, dear, many don't – but I just need to go over… Harry, why don't you sit down?" she frowned, looking at him curiously. Harry was standing in front of her nervously – he wasn't allowed on any furniture except the chairs in the kitchen.

"Er – well, Ms. Vector, I'm not really allowed…" he answered reluctantly. He didn't want to lie to the kind woman, but he also didn't want her to know that he was such a freak he wasn't even allowed on the furniture. It never really occurred to Harry that his relatives were the wrong ones in his situation, but soon he would learn better.

There was a flash of something in Septima's eyes, before she took a large breath and said, "Oh, is it because you're dirty?" she indicated his clothes. "I'm sure your aunt likes to keep her sofa's clean, but if you could just slip into some clean clothes right quick, or put a towel down –"

"No, ma'am, that's not it at all," Harry said, too surprised by what the woman had assumed to remember to be polite and wait for her to finish. "These are the cleanest clothes I have – well, they're not really mine, they were by cousin's – but Aunt Petunia doesn't let me sit on the furniture. She never has."

Septima's face grew dark, and Harry flinched, worried he had done something wrong. Finally she said, "I'll see to that, Harry, don't you worry. And please, call me Septima when we're not at school." Harry nodded, wondering what she meant by 'seeing' to it. "Here, would you like your clothes to fit?" she offered, standing. "I can spell them to your size and mend and clean them. It wouldn't be any trouble."

Harry's eyes lit up. He didn't care much for fashion, but he would love to have clean, well-cared-for clothes that fit him. Several times in the past, he had tried to mend his own clothes, but it never worked very well. Also, he was eager to see some magic.

Septima pulled a stick out of her sleeve – _A wand, _Harry corrected himself, _that's a real magic wand – _and waved it over Harry, muttering some words. Instantly, the worn gray shirt that was mean to be short-sleeved but was long-sleeved on Harry scrunched up and paled, years of dirt and scrubbing from hand soap and plain water washed away, all the holes and frayed edges gone. His jeans tightened at his waist, and shrunk up into themselves to his own height. The ripped knees mended, the spots of blood from varying injuries disappearing along with grass and mud stains. His trainers shrunk and cleaned and mended themselves. Even his glasses repaired and focused, and Harry could see much better.

His eyes sparkled as he beamed at Septima, and she felt her breath catch.

_The boy is so lovely when he is happy, _she thought to herself, a hand over her heart. _His relatives must have never done anything for him, and obviously they were rather rude to him as well. The poor dear…_

Then Septima noticed something that made her heart both stop and break in the same instant.

Harry's arms were covered with bruises, cuts, and burns of varying ages and degrees. These weren't the marks of just a rowdy or unlucky child – these were marks of abuse. And now that Septima was looking for it, she noticed the boy's crooked nose, the lump on his head – what else was there that she couldn't see? Oh, how could she have assumed that he was just neglected – and that was horrible enough – when he was obviously been physically hurt.

Septima swiped her wand through the air on instinct, saying, "_Medica famam_."

Harry gasped as a green glow enveloped him, and a tingling sensation ran through his body. There was a soft whir, like a computer starting up, and a large role of parchment appeared in mid-air right in front of him, facing Septima.

Harry stared as she snatched it from the air, and Septima gave a cry of shock as she read the report:

**_Harry James Potter_**

_Age: 10 & 11 months_

_Height: Three feet, eleven inches_

_Weight: Sixty-five pounds_

_Afflictions:_

_Improperly healed fractures_

_Previously broken nose, set incorrectly_

_Major bruising, healing correctly_

_Minor bruising, cuts, and burns_

_Bruised ribs, shin, elbow, skull (no brain damage, swelling under control)_

_Overall health:_

_Malnourished, underweight, underfed, emotionally traumatised, weak, touch-starved_

_Recommend: _

_Several potions: Contusion Corrector, Sylvester's Minor Salve, nutrient and general health potions with every meal for several months_

_Later: Two separate doses of Skele Gro, well-rounded meals, sunlight, physical contact (at his leave), encouragement and protection_

_Magical core state:_

_Very powerful_

_7/10_

Septima had feared the worst, but _this_? The Boy Who Lived in _this_ state? _Him_, of all people?

The boy was several inches and over a dozen pounds under the usual for his age, but what really shocked the woman was his core readings. They should be depleted from lack of contact with the magical world and from his abuse itself. And seven out of ten – they said that Merlin himself had been the only known ten in history. The Founders of Hogwarts had been eights or nines, and Dumbledore and Voldemort themselves had been in the seven-range. This small injured boy had power equal to that of the greatest wizards of their time?

Harry was staring from Septima to the paper nervously. What did it say? Had it declared him non-magical after all? Had he down something wrong again?

"Harry, dear, do your relatives…hurt you?" asked Septima finally, tucking the scroll into her robes and kneeling before the boy. Readings were rarely, if ever, wrong, but she still somehow hoped that Harry would laugh and say 'of course not!'

"Yeah," Harry answered, feeling slightly ashamed. "A lot, actually. When, you know, I do something bad."

Septima felt sick. Harry felt confused.

"Why did you get this?" she asked, lightly touching the lump on Harry's head. It seemed to be the most recent.

"Oh, I dropped a plate yesterday." Harry said. He didn't see why this was important.

Septima stood up.

"Harry, go get all of your things, please." She said.

Harry was still confused.

"But I thought Hogwarts didn't start until September first?" he said, confused. "It's only June."

"That's right, but you won't be coming back here." Septima said, taking a deep breath. Dumbledore had told them that he would have someone check on the boy, but it was obvious that he either hadn't or had ignored the reports. He would do nothing if Septima brought this up, except perhaps give a stern talking-to to the Muggles, so she would take matters into her own hands.

"Harry, after we do all your shopping I'm going to take you to a place that we have just for orphaned or abused wizarding children. You'll be able to stay there during the summers, so that you can heal and your relatives won't hurt you anymore. Would that be okay?"

In response, Harry grinned widely and threw his arms around her. Septima stood in shock for a moment, then laughed and hugged the boy back. She didn't know that it was the first time Harry had ever been hugged before – at least that he could remember.

Five minutes later, Harry was nearly skipping out of Privet Drive for the last time, an old backpack holding his meagre amount of clothes and his battered books in his hands. Septima was explaining to him all about Hogwarts – she wasn't surprised to learn that Harry knew nothing of his heritage now that she knew of the abuse he had suffered; why would the Muggles tell the boy if they despised him so? – and about the Wizarding World in general. Harry learned of the four houses at Hogwarts, all the subjects taught there, and of the wizarding sport called Quidditch before they made it to a tube station.

"We'll take this to London," Septima explained. "There's a Wizarding pub there called the Leaky Cauldron, and in the back is the entrance to Diagon Alley, which is one of the places where us witches and wizards shop."

After they had seated themselves in a remote corner of the subway and it started moving, Harry said hesitantly, "S-Septima? Did you know my parents?"

"Oh, dear boy, of course! Most everyone does, and those who didn't know _of_ them." At Harry's confused expression, she added, "Forgive me, I forgot you know nothing of your fame."

Harry's eyes grew big.

"F-fame?"

"Yes, Harry. You're very famous in our world." Septima said seriously. She nodded to Harry's scar. "Haven't you ever wondered where you got that?"

"My – my relatives said I got it in the car crash that killed my parents –"

"Car crash?" Septima looked furious. Harry flinched. "_Car crash_? Oh, Circe save me. No, I'm not mad at you, love, don't be afraid. It's just that your aunt and uncle knew full well what happened to your parents, and it was not related to an _automobile_." She said the last like it was a dirty word.

"What did happen, Septima?" Harry said almost desperately. "I don't understand – it's enough that I'm a wizard, and that I finally get to get away from the Dursleys, but you said I'm famous and my parents didn't die in a car crash, and I –"

The small boy looked close to hysterics, and Septima shushed him quickly, gently patting his leg. This time, Harry only jerked a tiny bit before relaxing.

"I'll tell you everything, don't you worry." Septima said. "Oh, but where to start? Hmm…well, I suppose it starts with a man called….a – a man called V-Voldemort." She shuddered. "Sorry, but people in our world don't like to say his name. We call him You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or the Dark Lord. He was a wizard who went very bad – very, _very_ bad. He wanted to take over the Wizarding World. He swayed countless people to his side – some willingly, some forcefully. If he asked you, and you said no…it was just a matter of time before he found you. Your parents were a great witch and wizard, and he wanted them on his side badly. They said no to him time and time again, and soon it became clear that they needed to go into hiding, because he would not take no for an answer again. You were just a few weeks old when Professor Dumbledore helped your parents find a small safe house. They layered it with powerful protection charms, and for over a year, you were all safe. It was Halloween of 1981 when You-Know-Who appeared at your house. He…he k-killed your parents, Harry, and then he tried to kill you. But it didn't work."

Harry was staring at her, tears in his eyes, as he listened. When she said the last bit, he gaped.

"The Killing Curse had never failed before. It worked on your parents and hundreds of other fully-grown witches and wizards – it even partially destroyed your house – but you were just left with that." Septima gestured to his scar. "And the strangest part is, You-Know-Who was destroyed. Gone. Vanished. Some even think he was killed. And that's what makes you famous, Harry. As far as the Wizarding World is concerned, you defeated the Dark Lord. You're the boy who lived."


End file.
